if I ruined it, thus, because it was my fault my fault. Then if if…sorry Mum. Tell Mum sorry Simon, OK? Thank you.'
The masked man leaned closer to Tim and said quite loudly:
'Tim, do you know why we are here? Talking to Simon?'
Tim shook his head.
'I went to Oxford and after that it was very different. Believe me I undoubtedly…something happened.'
Tim turned and looked at the masked man. 'I no longer want this. Why are we here?'
'We're here because your brother won't tell us. We want him to tell us everything. Give us David Martinez and Amy Myerson. Tell us where they are. Tell us what he knows. Hand himself over…or else he will suffer just as you are about to suffer.'
Tim attempted a dreadful courageous smile. He was trying to smile, bravely, for Simon.
The pathos was unbearable.
Another man moved behind Tim. He had a rope and a piece of wood. A looped rope and a piece of wood?
The first man spoke calmly through his facemask. He had the faintest trace of an accent.
'So, Tim, I am so very sorry we have to do this but it is because of your brother, he doesn't care about you. So say goodbye to Simon, your brother who doesn't care.'
The man slipped the garrotte over Tim's head.
Tim began to choke, almost at once. His legs thrashed out, kicking and scraping, heels squeaking against the floor. The garrotte was tightened further, and harder. Now Tim's face was going pink, then red, then almost blue.
The impassive man, standing right behind, just kept the garrotte tight, saying nothing. And then the killer released the garrotte, and Tim gasped, and gasped. He was still alive. Tim was still alive.
The first man leaned towards the camera.
'Next time we kill him.'
The screen went dead.
Simon stared at the blackness. He pushed back the chair, and turned away, ready to go — to go anywhere, just anywhere else; he hurled some euros at the puzzled girl and then he strode out onto the cobbled street. He needed the fresh air to stop himself screaming.
Tim…
A police car was slowly rumbling along the cobbles of the main street. Heading uphill past the Gasthof Fraundorfer. Heading in the direction of the chalet.
Simon watched the car. Then he remembered David's information. He turned the other way, and started running.
44
In front of them was the strange skyscape of Luderitz itself: stern Lutheran churches sat atop dirt roads, which ran past gaily gabled Black Forest villas and scruffy miners' taverns. Rolls of barbed wire guarded wooden piers that jutted into the cold blue harshness of the sea.
David followed along, as Angus walked quickly, turned left — and gestured. 'Dresler's house…'
They were confronted by one of the most vividly painted houses; its walls were a bright, Baltic red. Big white jeeps were parked down the deserted road. Scorching hot metal in the sun.
Angus knocked, and paused. He had a hand poised in an inside pocket. David knew why. Angus knocked again, louder and harder, and waited.
Then, a noise. The door was slowly unlatched, and a very old man peered around it. Angus instantly whipped out Nathan's gun, shoved through the door and pushed the man, roughly, angrily back into his own hallway.
The muzzle of the gun was pointing at the old man's orange cardigan. Amy and David exchanged glances. Alarmed and frightened.
Angus showed no such fear or doubt. He spat his words:
'Dresler, listen, everyone is fucking dead. And I want to know where you guys put the Fischer results. Now. Tell me.'
The old Nazi shrivelled away, but Angus loomed over the old German, pinning him to the wall. Dresler was staring at the gun, and at Angus, and then at David. Three times he blinked, staring at David, as if he found David more frightening than the gun.
'Dresler. Tell me. Just fucking tell me.'
Dresler was stammering; Angus was growling his questions.
'Tell me now!'
'Ich weiss es nicht nein nein — '
'I know you speak fucking English, you cocksucker — '
The old man was dribbling. He was so frightened and shocked he was dribbling.
David felt a desire to intervene. The scene was too hideous; just too hideous. He stared around, as Angus shouted and yelled. They were standing in a hallway straight from Alpine Bavaria. There was actually a cuckoo clock ticking on the wall. Some ancient walking sticks, with yellow horn handles.
And a portrait of Pope Pius the Tenth?
Maybe Angus was right to terrorize this Nazi into confession.
Dresler's old mouth was opening and closing. Angus leaned nearer. David surmised the gun must be hurting the old man, the muzzle pressing hard in his chest.
'Where are the Fischer results? Next time I shoot.'
The old man pushed feebly at Angus; and the Scotsman casually pulled back, aimed the gun at Dresler — and he shot in the air, millimetres from his target. Almost grazing the doctor's face. Terrifyingly close.
Amy gasped. David looked away. He looked anywhere else. He noticed something: a little address book on the hallway table, next to a phone. A little address book with handwriting on the cover. What was that? Another echo in his mind. Something. Something there?
Then he looked back.
Dresler had sunk to his knees in fear.
'Listen, Herr Doktor. You have two fucking minutes. Where are the results?'
Angus lifted the gun again, and he set the muzzle to the man's shoulder. 'Next I will shoot your arm, here, at the shoulderblade. Might take the whole arm off — '
The doctor was trembling.
'Ja! OK OK!' The old man lifted a liver-spotted hand. 'Shark Island.'
'Where?'
'I tell you. Shark Island. Go and see.' He was still terrified. There was a moist dark patch in his trousers. Fear had voided his bladder.
'Shark Island? What does that mean? Why? That doesn't make sense.' Angus pressed the gun harder into the shoulder. 'Tell me more.'
'Aber…Aber…' The old man shivered. He shut his eyes, like someone about to be executed. He was mumbling words. What were they? Prayers? They sounded like prayers.
And then Dresler opened his old sad eyes. And then he looked at David, then at Amy. He shook his head. 'I do not believe this…I do not believe you.'
'What?'
'You…you people will not kill me. You do not have the courage. Nein.'
Angus swore, and shot again, this time at the floor. A few centimetres to the left of the old man's legs. Splintered wood spun in the air.
But the Nazi had found some determination. He shook his head, and his eyes gleamed with a sullen defiance. Or maybe it was just a different kind of fear, maybe he was more scared of talking, of confessing, because of what might happen to him then. Amy was protesting.
